


An Eventful Morning

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crack, Humor, M/M, No Shame Ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 20:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1085182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's bad morning is all Sherlock's fault. And that fucking spider's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Eventful Morning

**Author's Note:**

  * For [britni_biohazard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/britni_biohazard/gifts).



> More spidery shenanigans. (Lovely, lovely Britni was first to think of this!)

The toast was burnt, and it was Sherlock's fault. It had to be. He'd done something to the toaster. He had to have. John Watson did not burn his toast on his own. It wasn't a thing he did.

What he did was stand in the middle of the kitchen with one socked feet and half-combed hair, stare in dismay at the ruined toast he held, and blame Sherlock. He didn't want to be late to work. He didn't want to ingest this horrific charred hell either. He stood, and pondered darkly.

Just then, Sherlock screamed a bloody murder and quickly divested his friend of the dilemma. John gave a loud yelp, jumped a foot in the air and dropped the burned toast onto the grimy floor.  In the haze of panic, he didn't have time to gaze mournfully at the state of his breakfast. He hardly had enough time to exit the kitchen before Sherlock was pelting past him and nearly flying out the window.

Sherlock wasn't flying out the window. What he was was shower-capped and soapy and dripping. And naked. Very naked and very in-display, much to the pleasure of the whole of Baker Street.  

And much to the displeasure of John. He wondered - between wondering what it was that made Sherlock assume parading about nude and drippy and shrieking like a banshee was a good idea - how Sherlock could possess not one ounce of shame. 

Before he could ask about either, Sherlock, eyes as wide as he could get them to be, whimpered and shakily pointed a shaking finger to the bathroom, and John just _knew_. He laughed.  

"Spider, again?"

Sherlock's glare, even with the flowery shower-cap atop his head and the bit of soap on his left ear and his endearingly soft penis just out and hanging, would have cowed most of London.

But not John. John was not obliging this morning. Sherlock had burned his toast.

"You'll have to deal with it", he informed his friend, avenging his ruined breakfast. "I'm already late for work, sorry."

Sherlock's expression changed from dangerous to pleading so fast that John might have gotten a whiplash if he'd been paying attention. Luckily, John, discarding the thought of breakfast, had turned to hunt for his other sock instead. Not so luckily, Sherlock was now following him around.

"Please, John", he was saying, sounding utterly grief-stricken. "Please."

John wanted to bite him. He ignored that, he ignored Sherlock and he climbed up the stairs. Sherlock followed him. There was a bit of a struggle as John tried to shut the door and Sherlock tried to get inside, until John got distracted by the bit of wet skin he would like to lick, and hastily retreated to his sock drawer. Sherlock hovered.

"Please. Please." He shivered. "I'm cold."

John had no doubt. He muttered curses, and dug through a pile of unpaired socks.

"I'll get sick, John."

John muttered something that vaguely sounded like, "Your own damn fault", and, "That fucking toast", found a sock that almost looked like the one he had on, and walked around Sherlock to sit on his bed to pull it on.

Sherlock trailed after him and stood with his dick right next to John's ear.

"I will die and it will be your fault entirely."

John gave him a glare and tried valiantly not to distract himself with the drop of water trailing down one hardened nipple.

"I'm leaving for work", he said and just barely made it to the door. Sherlock lunged, gripped his arm with a wet hand and dripped a bit onto his jumper. Rather rudely, he might add.

"If you don't get rid of it", he warned, "If you don't...I will follow you to work."

"No you won't", John said, and scoffed uncertainly.

Sherlock gave him a look that clearly stated that he would.

"You will not."

Sherlock gave him another look.

"You have _no shame_ ", John declared. Sherlock emitted an affronted huff.

"You're the one looking", he accused.

John twisted out of his damp grasp and threw up his arms. "Fine!" he said, and stomped out of the room. Sherlock padded triumphantly behind him. How long could it take anyway?

It took far too long.

Sherlock, in his haste to put as much distance as possible between himself and the spider, had left the water running, and the bathroom was so steamy that John could hardly breathe. Or see anything, for that matter. He definitely couldn't see the spider.

"Sherlock", he yelled, after a few minutes of squinting around. "Where is it?"

"In the tub", Sherlock yelled back.

John squinted into the tub.

"It's not in there", he bellowed.

"Yes it is!" Sherlock bellowed back.

John spent another few minutes examining the tub.

"Sherlock", he shouted with great impatience, "get in here and show me."

"No!"

"Oh come on", John groaned, and in the process of vigorously rolling his eyes, caught sight of the small thing, sitting innocuously near the window. Making a little sound of victory, he reached for the spider.

The spider slipped between his hands and scampered across the wall. John cursed and climbed into the bathtub. His socks were wet. He cursed again, and made a swipe for the damned creature.

The damned creature escaped him, ran up to the sill, and seemed to slip into a crack.

_Oh for god's sake._

"It's gone", he lied easily, emerging tousled and vaguely annoyed.

Sherlock eyed him with mild suspicion.

"Is it really?" He asked.

"Yes, yes", John said, and peeled off his damp socks. "Can I borrow your socks?"

"Ok", Sherlock said, and watched John dash into his bedroom. "You swear you got rid of it?"

"Yes, Sherlock", John said, hopping on one leg and wrestling one foot into a sock. "Go finish your shower."

Sherlock wandered into the bathroom and John tugged on his coat, dashed about the room looking for his shoes and ran out the door before Sherlock could spot the spider again and call him back in. He made it to the street and into a cab, and had yet to hear screams.

But he was thoroughly late to work, and it was all Sherlock's fault.

 


End file.
